


Personal Best

by sconelover



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Swimming, And nice thighs, Baz has abs, Baz in a Speedo, Baz is a sprinter, Baz's Hair, Because Simon in a Speedo, But also, Buzz Cut Simon, Dolphin Baz, Enemies to Lovers, I'm so sorry, Just Speedos All Around, M/M, Mentions of Baz's Chest Hair, My one regret is I couldn't fit a Baz POV in here, Oblivious Simon Snow, Oh and Baz totally has a thing for competency, POV Simon Snow, Rivals to Lovers, Simon in a Speedo, Simon is an endurance swimmer, So Many Speedos, Speedos, Swim Team, Swim Team AU, Swimming Boys, Swimming Pools, The only time Dolphin Baz is valid, Thirsty Simon Snow, This is the first and only time I will write Dolphin Baz, Unfortunate Relay Pairings, Writing this gave me war flashbacks to swim team, competitive swimming, hot damn, swim meets, yeah i know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25363123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover
Summary: It’s not that I haven’t seen Baz in a Speedo before. Everyone wears a Speedo to meets. So I can’t really explain why I’m so fascinated by his thighs, only that they’re smooth and muscular all at once, and they’re unending.~~or~~A high school swim team AU. Baz is the fastest sprinter on the team, while Simon shines in endurance events. Insults and sparks fly. Also, Speedos.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 44
Kudos: 191





	Personal Best

Baz is leading warm-ups when I get to swim practice. He’s got everyone standing in a circle, stretching their arms overhead, and he glares at me when I walk into the building.

I’m late. I’m almost always late, because I have to take the bus to practice. And the bus is always delayed.

It’s just another strike against me. Another thing he can hate me for—and unlike my swimming speed or my clumsiness in dryland exercises, it’s not something I can control, either.

Well, I suppose I could take the earlier bus.

But sometimes it feels good when he concentrates his energy into being angry at me for _this,_ instead of something more personal. I don’t tend to take his insults personally, but when he calls me a “boorish oaf with the grace of a hippopotamus in the water,” well. It’s hard not to.

He guides the team through arm and leg stretches, and a few minutes later Coach Mac arrives and shouts at us to get in the pool. We line up, getting ready to dive in from the side. Baz is in the first lane, of course. He’s the fastest on the team. I’m somewhere in the middle.

Even though Coach Mac tells me I was made for long-distance, that sprinting just isn’t in my journey, I can’t help but feel my blood boil when Baz shoots me a smug smirk from his place above Lane 1.

We break halfway through to drink water and use the loo. I end up next to Baz, rummaging through my swim bag for a protein bar. He takes one look at me dripping water all over his things and rolls his eyes. “I’m worried about you, Snow,” he says.

I grumble and drag my eyes up to his. Baz is tall, and it makes him a good swimmer. He likes to remind everyone that no matter what they do or how hard they train, their legs will never be as long as his.

Tosser.

“Why?”

He unscrews the top of his fancy metal bottle. “Coach had us doing sprints. I wasn’t sure you’d make it through.”

His voice is sickly sweet, and it cuts right through me. “Wait ‘til we do the 2,000 tomorrow,” I growl. “You won’t last halfway.”

Baz bends over to zip his bag, and I watch the strong tendons in his back flex. He’s all wiry, whipcord muscles, not an ounce of extra bulk—he’s built for speed.

He raises an eyebrow as he straightens up. “Is that what your girlfriend tells you when you have sex?”

I gape at him.

“Close your mouth or you’ll end up drinking half the pool,” Baz says. He strides back towards the pool, walking lightly on the balls of his feet. “Now come on, or you’ll be late. Again.”

My anger fuels me for the next few sprints, but Baz and Coach are both right—I’m not made for this. (I’ll never tell him. I’ll never give him the satisfaction.) I’m bulkier, heavier in the water. If Baz is a match, quick to ignite and quick to burn, I’m the embers of a bonfire. Endurance is where I shine.

We end practice with some dives. The lane divisions get muddled, and I end up standing behind Baz. His dives are infuriatingly graceful; he barely makes a splash as he enters the water. I feel like a cannonball going after him.

I accidentally jostle him as I haul myself out of the water for the next round. He huffs.

“‘S there a problem?” I say.

He folds his arms. “If you wanted to wrestle, Snow, you should have chosen water polo.”

Sometimes I think I _would_ be better at water polo.

At the end of practice, Baz frees his hair from his cap and tips his head back into the water like all the girls do. His hair’s a deep black, almost shoulder-length. It spreads out like ink in the water, floating to the surface in dark tendrils.

My own hair’s short, for practicality’s sake, because I hate wearing a cap. It’s close-shaved on the sides and I still have some curls up top, but as soon as meet season starts, I always buzz it off. Baz makes fun of it, says it makes me look like a chav. But it makes me faster, so the joke’s on him.

He doesn’t faint during the 2,000 meter swim the next day, but he doesn’t excel, either. He goes too fast at the beginning, burns out and forgets to pace himself. By the end, I’m one of the only ones in the pool retaining my original speed. (It helps to think about food. If I imagine what dinner’s going to be like after this, I get through the whole swim, no problem.)

When we finish, I lean back lazily on my arms against the edge of the pool, casually sipping water. Baz is panting and flushed, and when he notices me watching him with a shit-eating grin on my face, he flips me the V and gets yelled at by Coach Mac.

Serves him right.

Coach has been pushing us with hard dry-land workouts, since it’s still the start of the season. It’s grueling and seems almost like a test to see who stayed in shape over the summer break. Baz outstrips me on the track, too, of course—it’s those long legs—and never misses a chance to insult my technique.

He’s pulling up behind me, about to lap me, which would be embarrassing. I surge forward, determined not to let it happen, but he’s beside me before I know it. “You run like an elephant,” he says.

“Good thing elephants are good swimmers,” I tell him, and I push myself to run faster.

He can’t keep up with me when it comes to strength training, though. We don’t do much of it, but I like to show off how many pull-ups I can do in a row, just to watch him glower. Once I challenged him to a plank contest, and I won. It’s the little things.

Baz wears a headband during dry-land workouts to keep his hair out of his face. I don’t think I could ever pull off that look, or any of the other guys for that matter. The girls wear those stretchy bands to keep their hair up—the pink stuff that comes in a little roll, like toilet paper.

When it’s time to get back in the pool, he always takes his shirt off with a huge amount of ceremony, then frees his hair and tosses it back. It’s like he _wants_ everyone to look. (It works—at least on the girls, on Agatha.)

Baz is one of the only guys on the team who has chest hair already. Just a little, but he sports it proudly. It’s another way he’s better than us, and he knows it.

He shaves it off during meet season, though. He shaves his legs, too. Everyone knows that being as smooth as a dolphin is the right way to go, for speed at least. It makes you aerodynamic. (Water-dynamic?) I can’t bring myself to shave what little hair I have. I barely even have underarm hair as it is, and I’ve finally managed to grow a couple wispy chest hairs—I’d not get rid of them for anything.

Baz is just so _fit,_ the tosser. He has tight six-pack abs, V-shaped obliques leading into his jammers. I’m dead jealous. My muscles aren’t nearly as defined. 

Friday after practice—a week before our first meet—everyone gathers round Coach Mac to get their event assignments. Most people do two or three events, specialising in either sprinting or endurance, and some people choose to sign up for the relays as well.

“Snow,” he says when it’s my turn, scanning down his clipboard. I step up and catch a glimpse. My eyes jump to _Pitch:_ 50 freestyle, 100 freestyle, 100 IM. Typical sprinter events. And– oh? 200 meter relay?

“I’m putting you in for the 400 freestyle,” Coach says. I nod, and he makes a marking in pencil. “And 100 butterfly?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll do the 400 IM too.”

He snorts. “You’re on a suicide mission, Snow.”

“And,” I say, staring determinedly at the clipboard, “the 200 relay.”

Coach looks up. “You know that’s sprinting 50–”

“I know what it is,” I say.

He shrugs. “Alright.”

I look up to see Baz watching me from across the room where he’s pulling on his swim parka. 

I’ll show him I can sprint.

***

It’s fucking freezing. 

I got here at 6 a.m. It’s a foggy and frigid early October morning, and this building has no heating. My arse is about to fall off because sitting in this hard plastic chair is making me go numb.

I drove here with Agatha and her dad. She’s brought a fluffy blanket, has it wrapped around her in a cosy sort of way, and she’s eating a sandwich. 

I wish I’d brought a sandwich. Instead I have a chocolate chip oatmeal bar and a bag of PowerGels.

I’ve stretched already, and my first event isn’t for an hour or so. Relay’s last, so I’m here all day. They haven’t posted the teams yet—I think they’ll be up around mid-morning. The day won’t be easy. I’ve been put in challenging heats, against guys who mostly have similar times to me in the events, sometimes even lower.

I hunker down in my parka, pulling my hood up, and open up Flappy Bird. 

The day passes quickly once the events start. I get up and cheer for Agatha’s events and some of my other team members. Baz is in one of the earlier events, the 50 freestyle, and half the team heads to the side of the pool to watch. Coach is almost positive he’s going to medal—he did last year, twice.

He’s here now, still in his dark purple Watford Swim parka, getting a pep talk from Coach. He doesn’t look tired or zombie-ish, unlike most of us. He just looks poised and confident. He’s listening to Coach with serious eyes, and even like this—early in the morning, with his hair pulled back and his goggles around his neck—he cuts a striking figure. 

Baz crosses back to where his things are, near the stands. I follow him there, intending to wish him luck, maybe, or curse him out—I haven’t decided which—but the words die in my throat when he unzips his parka.

It’s not that I haven’t seen Baz in a Speedo before. Everyone wears a Speedo to meets. So I can’t really explain why I’m so fascinated by his thighs, only that they’re smooth and muscular all at once, and they’re unending. His legs are so long, and now that he’s shaved I can see the toned muscles in his calves flex as he walks. 

I seriously wish I had legs like that.

I force my eyes up once I realise, in a moment of horror, it might seem like I was looking at a very different area of his body. And then I just end up looking at his smooth expanse of tan chest and stomach instead. (If I had chest hair, I’d never, ever shave it.) 

“Snow?” He’s shed the parka completely now, and he rubs at the gooseflesh forming on his upper arms. Even his forearms are perfectly shaped, the tendons near his wrist delicately defined. He’s shaking his head at me. “Did… you need something?”

“I just, uh. Wanted to wish you good luck.”

Baz looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “And here I was thinking you were storming over to tell me what an absolute wanker I am and how I’m going to lose every event I’m in today.”

“Well, it’d be a lie,” I tell him, because after all, he _is_ a good swimmer.

He picks up his cap and walks alongside me back toward the pool. “Which part?” he asks.

“Er.” _Wanker. Losing events._ “All of it.”

He looks at me for a steady moment. “All right. Thank you.”

“Uh. Yeah. Anytime.”

Baz snorts and heads up to the starting block.

I’m gathered with some of our team members, cheering as the swimmers step up onto the dive blocks. He may be an arsehole sometimes, but he’s _our_ arsehole, so we’re all cheering for him. He’s in the last heat, the fastest one.

When the whistle blows, I can’t take my eyes off Baz.

His body coils like a spring, his leg muscles tightening as his feet brace on the block in the starting position. He executes a perfect dive, his underwater momentum immediately putting him ahead of his competitors.

Baz is like a shark in the water. He’s all swiftness and sharp angles. You don’t even see him coming.

We’re all screaming ourselves hoarse as he pulls forward, forward—he’s neck in neck with a competitor, and– _BEEP!_

The whole thing is over within seconds as his hand smashes against the touchpad at the end of the pool. I wait for the times with bated breath, glancing up at the screen. Agatha’s fingers are digging into my forearm. Baz is in the pool, vision locked on the screen up above.

_First._

I knew he’d do it.

The team erupts into cheers and Baz pulls himself out of the water with a smile, accepting a near-tackle from Dev and a towel from his mum. Coach Mac comes over and claps him on the back as a judge places a medal over his neck.

He looks at me, and I try to send a friendly smile his way, but he just smirks.

_Ugh._

I should know better than to just be happy or excited for him. He’ll find some way to turn this into a statement about my inferiority.

I spend the rest of the morning alternating between playing on my phone, listening to Agatha talk about her friends, warming up in the baby pool, and swimming my events. People don’t line up to cheer like they do for the 50 free—it gets a little dull watching someone swim the length of the pool sixteen times, rather than two.

The 400 freestyle doesn’t go very well, as expected, but at least I don’t come last. I come first in my heat on the 100 fly, prompting Agatha to buy me a stack of biscuits from the food stall. By the time I’m done with the 400 IM, I want to collapse and sleep for 27 hours. 

And we haven’t even done the relay yet, and that’s _sprinting._

I head over to the board where the relay teams are posted and scan for my name. “Excuse me,” I hear behind me, and none other than Baz Pitch steps up behind me.

I find ‘Watford,’ then ‘Snow,’ and–

“Fuck. You’re _joking,”_ Baz says.

The names: Basilton Pitch. Trixie Pixie. Agatha Wellbelove. 

And me.

His hand has closed around my wrist before I have time to react, and he’s dragging me away from the board to an empty spot near the wall. He turns to face me, and his eyes are murderous. “You’d better not let the team down,” he hisses.

“I won’t,” I growl. It’s true I’m a little slower, but I _have_ been training in sprints for the past few weeks. I’ve improved since last season, at least.

“Care to tell me what your 50 free time is, Snow?”

“29,” I say.

“And mine?”

I gulp, recalling his winning race earlier this morning. “24.”

“I don’t know why you even signed up for this event,” he spits. “We’re putting you in first, so in case you set us back, at least we can try to make up for it.”

I cross my arms. “Fine.”

He’s still staring with me as if he has X-ray vision or something, and I resist the urge to look away. I just look right in his eyes.

We’ll win. I don’t know why Coach put me on this team, but I know we’ll win the relay, because we have Baz.

And no one is faster than Baz Pitch.

An hour later, Baz is watching me warily as I pull off my parka and tug on my Watford swim cap. He’s looking at my legs. (I can’t imagine why—I mean, I usually wear jammers to practice, so I guess more leg is exposed. But they’re nothing much to look at, not like his.) Anyway, he’s watching me differently than how some of the girls do. Not like he likes me. More like I’m something he’d like to eat.

I’m a little afraid of what will happen if I’m too slow.

I wait under the main tent behind the blocks, nervously clearing my goggles with my thumb just so I have something to do with my hands. Agatha and Trixie are chatting nearby, and they keep shooting me glances. _Fuck._ Coach could have put me on _any_ team, but these guys are all superstars. They’re all sprinters.

Baz strides over to me across the concrete, and I stand my ground. He stops inches from my face. “Don’t cock this up, Snow,” he says.

I grit my teeth. “I won’t.”

He fixes me with a glare, setting both hands on my shoulders. I meet his eyes dead on. “When you’re on the block,” he says softly, “build up your tension. Like a spring. And when that whistle blows–” His fingers tighten in a vice grip. “When that whistle blows, Snow, you _go off.”_

It’s oddly motivating, and I just nod. He gives me another serious look, then pushes me toward the pool.

I step up onto the block.

I take one last glance behind me at Baz, and he gives me a determined nod.

_3… 2.... 1…_

The whistle blows, and I _explode_ into the water.

I don’t care if I pass out after this. Whatever I lack in speed and technique, I’ll make up for with energy and brute force. I force myself through the water with my arms, kicking up a storm behind me. 

I count my strokes. I only breathe once on the first length, and my chest is burning. Use the momentum to flip, and I swallow some water but push through–

I can see the touchpad. Everything is narrowing in on that one point, the edges of my vision almost going dark, my head pounding something awful. I feel like I’m on fire; every cell in my body is screaming for oxygen. I make myself kick _harder,_ take one stroke, another, another.

There’s someone right next to me, and it’s the thought of Baz’s reaction if we win that makes me _push_ forward one last time, surge toward the end of the pool. I smash the touchpad over and over as I come up, gasping for air and coughing. Behind me, I hear the splash as Agatha dives in.

Someone offers a hand, and I take it and let myself be hauled out of the pool. I look up and I’m face to face with Baz.

“27,” he says breathlessly. His mouth quirks up at the corner. “I’m impressed.”

I brace my hands on my knees—I’m still not sure that I _won’t_ pass out—and give him a nod. “G– good luck,” I pant out.

By the time it’s his turn, I’m back on my feet, having drained an entire bottle of water offered by Dr. Wellbelove. 

Baz shoots into the water. He makes it look effortless as he swiftly passes his competitors. He was third to leave the block for the final relay round, out of seven teams—but he’s quickly catching up.

I’m standing with Trixie and Agatha, not even sure when it started to seem like we might _actually_ win, and we’re shouting his name, jumping up and down. He’s pulling in hot, and he’s in front—he’s in front!—and we’ve bent down to greet him, to stare at the touchpad–

Baz’s hand smashes into it as his timer stops, and he emerges from the water, panting. Without a word to us, he whips off his cap and goggles and turns to look at the screen.

“Come on, come on,” I whisper.

Our time: 1:40.

I scan the others: 1:41, 1:42…

Something wet smashes into the three of us, and suddenly we’re squished together. “We did it!” Trixie says.

I hear Baz make a happy sound in the back of his throat, and my laughter bubbles easily to the surface. “We did? First?”

Baz pulls back, and he’s smiling at me with his teeth, which I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen before. He’s all flushed and his hair’s dripping and his eyes are shining in the rarest kind of way. “First,” he says.

We walk up to the judges to accept our trophy. Baz takes it first, looks at it for a moment—then holds it out to me. “Snow, you glorious idiot,” he says as I stare at it. Finally, I take the trophy, and he grins. “I didn’t think you had it in you." 

“I… thanks,” I say.

“Keep it,” he says. “You’ve earned it.”

***

The meet’s winding down and I’m about to catch a ride home with Agatha and her dad when Baz waves me over. “Snow!” I shoulder my bag and walk closer. He has his parka slung over one arm, a towel wrapped around his waist. His chest is still bare and sprinkled with water droplets. 

“A few of us are getting lunch nearby,” he says. “You should come.”

He’s still looking at me like he always does, like he’s about to tackle me, but it’s a little softer now. I think it’s weird he’s being nice to me now. Maybe he has a thing for competency.

“I don’t have a car,” I tell him.

“I’ll drive you.” He unwinds his towel and bends down to dry his legs, which seems personal for some reason, so I look away. “So?”

“Okay.”

And that’s how I find myself in Baz’s Jaguar, probably soaking water into the nice upholstery of the passenger seat. What kind of seventeen-year old has a _Jaguar?_

I’ve never seen Baz at school—I think he goes to some sort of elite, posh private school. I wonder why he swims for Watford club instead of his school. He’s the best; they’d probably kill to have him.

He’s put on his purple parka again, but it’s still unzipped. His stomach muscles ripple as he leans forward to start the ignition.

He catches me looking. (He knows he has a perfect body; he must be used to people looking at him, right?) He raises an eyebrow and says, “Need something, Snow?”

A drop of water runs down his top lip. His tongue darts out to catch it, and I blink several times and look away. I thought, for a second, I wanted– It couldn’t have been–

“I just–” I say. “Um, you–”

“Spit it out,” he says.

I risk a glance back, and he’s looking at me. Really looking. His eyes are dark and dilated, his cheeks flushed. He looks pretty, almost—his features are nearly artistic in how they’re arranged, fine and bold all at once.

“I, um. Why are you looking at me like that?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, and I’m sure he’s going to tell me to shut up. But then… 

“Even with that obnoxious buzz cut,” he says, swallowing, “you’re still fit as hell.”

 _Baz_ thinks _I’m–_

“You think I’m fit?” I ask.

He raises a noncommittal eyebrow.

I’m leaning over the centre console before I can think too hard about it, getting right up in his face. “Hey. You never said that before.” Even when I yelled about how stupidly perfect his hair was. Even when I groaned about his muscles...

“It’s never a good idea to flirt with your teammates.”

_Flirt._

Baz Pitch is flirting with me.

Has he been doing it this whole time…? Were all of his insults barely veiled compliments?

Probably not. I don’t tend to compare blokes I find fit to hippopotamuses. 

Then again, I don’t usually find blokes attractive. Just Baz.

Maybe that’s the way you do it. Maybe it’s just the way _he_ does it…

“Can I kiss you?” I ask. Baz’s eyes widen, and I stutter. “I mean, if you want to, I didn’t– I mean–”

His mouth is on mine before I can finish that disastrous sentence. It’s damp and soft and he smells like chlorine and shampoo. 

I’m kissing a boy.

_I’m kissing Baz._

I think I like it. I like it a lot, actually. My hands are braced on the console between us when he wrenches himself back. “Sorry,” he gasps, and then, “What was that, Snow?”

“We’re kissing,” I say dumbly. “Or, we were, I guess.”

Baz touches a finger to his lips, staring at me with some measure of concern. “Why?”

I didn’t really stop to consider _why._ Or if it’s _normal_ to want to kiss another boy, especially one who’s mean to me at swim practice. I don’t know—I guess I don’t think of it that way. It’s just Baz.

“I dunno,” I say. “You’re the one who kissed me.”

“You’re the one who asked.”

“Well. Did you like it?”

“Yes,” he says, almost like it’s a question. “Did you?”

I can’t take my eyes off his lips. Half-open at the moment, full and soft. _Soft._ Christ, I know what Baz’s _lips_ feel like…

I didn’t think I wanted this until I did. I didn’t have a name for whatever ignited within me whenever I looked at Baz, but now I do.

 _“Yes,”_ I say. “So why’d you stop?”

He shakes his head, sending a strand of hair swinging. I almost want to reach out and tuck it back. “I didn't think you..." He stops, looks back at me, something brewing in his expression. "I’m not sure."

“Then, um–” I reach up to run my hands through my curls, force of habit, only to find nothing there. “Should we do it again?”

Baz kisses like he swims—urgent, heated, swift and precise. Little jabs of his chin against mine. Everything’s calculated and quick. Like he’s trying to win.

But while he’s a sprinter, I’m endurance. I’ll outlast him, any day. (I could do this for so long. _Forever.)_ So I’m taking my time. Taking in all of him; getting my fill. Forcing him to go slow with me, to pace ourselves.

I lean forward further and put a hand on the side of his neck. The center console digs into my stomach. Baz winds his hand up and around the back of my head, brushing lightly at my hair. I can almost hear him making fun of it. I don’t care.

He’s finally softening, easing up. Letting go, letting me in. (Letting _me_ take the lead—I’m shocked.) My hand falls, tracing down his chest, his stomach, and he gasps into my mouth. I can’t believe I’m touching him—touching the hard muscles I’ve stared at for so long. (It’s better up close. So much better than I imagined.) I can’t believe he’s letting me.

The center console is really starting to hurt, so I pull back. I tip my head toward the backseat. “Do you want to, um…”

He smirks and turns off the ignition. “I like this side of you.”

“Better than insulting each other,” I say, opening the door. I tear off my parka—it’ll just get in the way—leaving me only in my Speedo, and throw it into the passenger seat. 

Baz stares at me as I do it, his cheeks growing pink. “I still fully intend to insult you, Snow.”

I clamber into the back, reaching under the passenger seat to push it forward and create more space. “Was this your plan all along?” I ask. “Lure me in with false promises of lunch…”

I recline half-horizontally across the seats, and Baz opens the opposite door and climbs right on top of me without a second of hesitation. He’s shed his parka, too, and there’s heat pooling in my whole body, tingling wherever he touches me. “And then seduce you?” he says.

These Speedos don’t leave much to the imagination.

I pull him gently towards me, until his weight is half on me, half on the seats. “I’d like to think _I_ did the seducing…”

Baz rolls his eyes. “Right, when you hit your personal best time today I just thought, ‘Now, _that_ really gets me going.’”

“Does it?”

He scowls. “No.”

But the way he kisses me after—full-bodied and passionate, guiding my hands to the dip of his lower back even as his own find my arms, my chest; the way he presses himself to me heavily, smiling like he’s won the race—says differently.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this weird little idea! 😂 This fic came to me while I was swimming and reminiscing on my old high school swim team days (though sadly no *spicy* experiences like this one) and it just wouldn't leave my head until I wrote it down.
> 
> By the way, [this is what a swim parka looks like.](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61M0QtWmjAL._AC_UX679_.jpg) And jammers are like knee-length compression shorts.
> 
> Thanks to [Dem (coolcoolcool_nodoubt),](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coolcoolcool_nodoubt/pseuds/Coolcoolcool_nodoubt) [knitbelove (ladymac111),](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/knitbelove) and @writerreader256 for beta reading, and special thanks to Dem for her expertise in British swim team things. Thank you to [KrisRix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix) for the title idea!


End file.
